


You're Dripping Like a Saturated Sunrise

by grandfatherclock



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, F/M, Making Out, OR IS IT, Possibly Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:55:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22946659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grandfatherclock/pseuds/grandfatherclock
Summary: "Hi," Jester says, and she comes forward, looping her arm into Caleb's. Her skin is cold against his and he has to stop himself from leaning into her, from taking in her warmth.Then she leans intohimand Caleb thinks his mind might break.
Relationships: Jester Lavorre/Caleb Widogast
Comments: 7
Kudos: 104





	You're Dripping Like a Saturated Sunrise

**Author's Note:**

> Lyrics from the song [_Colours_](https://open.spotify.com/track/1TnUURhehaoMWKAqQtirm6?si=6CwRK0RlSPWhS_pLLjMNOw) by Halsey, for the prompt: 
> 
> “I can’t keep kissing strangers and pretending that they’re you.”

He doesn't quite know what to make of it when it happens.

It's strange they're here at all. The Mighty Nein don't make a habit of attending fanciful parties, and Jester was squealing with an arm around Nott's own as she fished through the dresses of Marion's preferred seamstress. Silks and velvets and lace all around her only made her grin more. It was only the clench of her arms, the mere set of her shoulders, which betrayed her tension.

See, it wasn't often that Marion Lavorre asked favours of the Nein. She was a radiant and brilliant and entrepreneurial spirit, and when Caleb said as such, Jester having cornered them all in the lobby after talking with her beloved mother, Jester's lips pulled into a smile. The corner of her eyes crinkled, her skin this flushed blue and her breathing slightly picked up the way it got when she's agitated. And she _was_. Agitated, that was. It only picked up later when they all went shopping.

"Careful, Cayleb." She wiggled her eyebrows, and he watched them with such unfettered fondness it was obscene. Yasha leaned against the wall, he could see her bright jewel-like eyes watching his minute movements, and Caleb exhaled out his teeth. "I might think you have a crush on my _Mama_."

Beauregard then laughed behind him, this hoarse sound that makes Jester giggle in turn, and she clapped her hand roughly on his back. "Caleb," she said, and when he turned to catch Beau's gaze, her blue eyes were _gleaming_. "Caleb Widogast, having a crush on the Ruby. Can you imagine?"

The Mighty Nein around him pealed into uproarious laughter and Caleb just shook his head at their antics. The gag, of course, was the idea that the Ruby would give him, a mere and dorky friend of Jester's, a sideways glance, and they were right, of course. The thought of him amongst the captains and princes she daily bed was ridiculous.

How fortunate he was to not be in love with Marion Lavorre, then.

From the corner of his eye he could see Jester watching him, eyes shining but not _cackling_ like the others… and her expression when their gazes catch was almost shy.

On further reflection—he was a damned fool.

"Hi," he stumbles out, without thinking. The word comes out breathless and he blinks, catching the way light plays on her skin, blue more gentle in the haze of the Nicodrani sun through the windows. Her freckles dot her skin like constellations and she's so lovely, she's so, so _lovely_. He needs to tell her, he thinks. He doesn't miss the looks Fjord and Beau shoot Jester's way but she is so, _so_ lovely. She would appreciate hearing so from even his wretched lips.

"Hi," Jester says, and she comes forward, looping her arm into Caleb's. Her skin is cold against his and he has to stop himself from leaning into her, from taking in her warmth.

Then she leans into _him_ and Caleb thinks his mind might break.

Which is how he ended up making out with the blonde whose head is tilted up, pink lips captured in Caleb's own as he leans over her against a wall. His hands are set on her waist and she sighs out the name Caleb gave her as he smiles against her lips. There's something pleasant about her mouth, something practiced in the way her tongue trails over Caleb's teeth and then along his own, something about the muffled moan between them as he leans further close. As he i nhales her saccharine perfume, watches her get lost in his presence.

There's a purpose to all this, he thinks, a leg sliding between hers as he pulls back. He captures her lower lip in his teeth for a moment before letting go and her eyes are half-lidded.

Her father, tall and imposing, is being sweet-talked by Fjord and Yasha—Yasha's intimidating smile and her abrupt but _effective_ little _yeps_ , _he's very smart, you should listen to Captain Tooktooth_ nearly make Fjord's perfect smile break—while Nott and Beau sneak into his office looking for dirt. He's been giving Marion trouble, Jester revealed to them in the lobby with her mouth in a frown, threatening to bog down the Chateau with legal notices. Of made-up slights based off testimony by disgruntled former clients. Perhaps to curry favour with Lord Sharpe, though Marion was unsure of his ultimate intentions. Though there were a multitude of ways to distract the hawkish daughter, a business tycoon in her own right with her stark pink lipstick and beautiful waistcoat, Jester's eyes gleamed as she suggested _seduction_.

And then her eyebrows furrowed with confusion as Caleb nodded, turned on his heel, and stuck up a conversation with the haughty woman. Her lower lip jutted out, and suddenly all Caleb could think about was the soft pink of her mouth as his own lips curled into a lazy smile, watching the women's eyes trail to the set of his jaw, settling on the unblemished skin there. _Frau Archambeault_ , he whispered against those lips, _her_ lips, and—

He moans against her, her painted purple nails digging under his coat and against his sides as she reaches back in for another kiss . His eyes close for a half-second, just listening to the sound of their breathing, hers slightly more out of breath than his own. She’s opening her mouth, and he feels the corner of his lips quirk into this affectionate smile, remembering the way eyebrows furrow as she works out what to say. Sometimes her hand reaches out to play with the earrings that dangle on her horns—oh, she _loves_ that word, _I love things that dangle, Cayyyyleb_ , she laughed the one time he commented that Nott’s design on her dress was getting loose with some of the buttons—

“Would you come back?” Archambeault asks, and Caleb opens his eyes with shock, pink colouring on his cheeks for the first time this entire encounter from his fantasy. Her lips are shining wet, from his tongue and not from the glittering shine of lipstick, and her fingers, nails not painted a lovely pink the way Jester’s were, trail on his shoulders. “If I asked you to?” She has a rasp, this pleasant depth to her every word. Blonde curls have fallen a little down her face where they were before tightly woven into a bun, and Caleb stares at this woman who supposes that he’s a long-suffering attendant of a local artist.

It was Jester’s idea. _You can be the assistant of meeeee_ , she’d cackled, as she twirled in the dress she bought for the event. It was red and the cloth was silk, perfectly fitting around her and accentuating her curves in a way that made his throat dry. Pink blooming on his expression.

“Perhaps,” he lies, and he raises her hand in his own, his own hand warmer. His kiss on her knuckles is careful, and when they make their way back, Archambeault stops to fix her hair when they come across a mirror. Caleb uselessly tells her the way she exposes her neck and the tight necklace around her throat is a _tease, Frau Archambeault_ , and she just smirks. The small heels to his boots click against the floor, and his gaze immediately searches out Jester. 

She’s looking away, and his eyes strain on her shoulder blades exposed by her dress. He tries to feel some measure of absurd relief.

He fails.

They're drunk later, and Caleb tries not to look at her.

To clarify, everyone but Jester and Caduceus are drunk. Nott is napping quietly, pierced nose scrunching and long ears flapping every so often as a dream manifests itself in her head, and her small form is curled onto a couch. A pile of revealing documents are resting on the table beside her. Beau sits beside her, close to unconsciousness herself, and all she does is mumble _so fucking cool, Nott, we were so fucking cool,_ seemingly unaware that Nott nuzzled into the couch pillows with sleep. It seems the two of them managed to use the time the group bought them rather effectively, and his heart stirs with familial affection.

Yasha and Fjord are idly arm-wrestling. Caleb thinks it might be a repeated series of matches, Yasha's arm movement slower than he remembered it being a while ago. He wonders if she's going easy on him. It would be… sweet if she were. As sweet as the sugar in the tea Caduceus offered him, _something to offset the alcohol, Mister Caleb, and if not for that, just for taste which is reason enough—_

And Jester, who for some reason is sitting beside him. Her head is cocked, blue hair pooling to one side, and through the haze of the drunkenness he can see violet eyes carefully assessing him, how he weakly holds the tea he hasn't drunk from with still hands, how he swallows with his throat feeling sandpaper-dry. He tries fruitlessly to look away, for his eyes to trace over the grooves in the old wooden counter where other patrons have carved in little messages—his eyes uselessly drag on the hearts—but he looks back to her soon enough. It's impossible not to, her with her glittering earrings and violet makeup around her eyes distracting him with every blink. She wears the dress still, a jacket over it, and he thinks his heart might crush in on itself.

It's beating so damned fast.

"Cayleb," Jester giggles, and he is such a goddamn fool, wondering if _loving_ was the right way to describe how her tongue caressed the syllables of his name. An indescribable word, _loving_ , for the indescribable sensation of one's name thrumming in Jester Lavorre's mouth. He can't help _but_ describe it, though—at least attempt to. There's a trembling underneath her tone that comes from her excitement, like she has butterflies for lungs and they flutter each time she has a new idea. The sky is the colour of her skin under the lights of their massive tree in Rosohna and the sea is the colour of her skin in the evening sun. He's a fool, nothing can come of this, he's such a _fool—_

"She must've been a good kisser," Jester continues, eyes glittering. "Your cheeks are all red, still. Just so you know." She raises her hands to her own cheeks as she says that.

Caleb blinks and then blinks once more. His lips pull into a smile at her hand movement and how she scrunched her nose—like a cat, taking in their surroundings for the first time—and then realizes, with a soft kind of desperation, that a wheezing laugh is working out past his lips. It sounds rough, the way Sylvan does when he breaks into it after long months of lacking practice. Like Common, when he feels panic ripping into him like a dagger under how skin, his heart rate rising even after the absence of immediate danger. "More the alcohol than the woman, Jester," he whispers. _Jes-ter_. If it could stop sounding like a reverent hymn each time he says it, he might appreciate himself more.

_But she deserves to hear it_ , his mind snarls back at him, the fierceness of the thought breaking past the fog of his drink. _From anyone, even from you, someone should say her name the way she says everyone else's._ The alcohol suddenly feels like burning on his tongue, like the fireworks at Hupperdook crackling against the sidewalk. The kids clapped their hands and Jester's hair followed the movement of her head like a cloud as she turned to beam at him _. Someone should, Widogast—_ he doesn't know when the creature under his skin started calling itself _Widogast—and they shouldn't be so damned_ ashamed—

Caleb drains the cup of tea, and it burns against his throat. Sugar washes down against his mouth along with faint tastes of molasses, of ginger, and he coughs, setting down the delicate cup harder than he intended and jaw working itself.

Jester raises an eyebrow. " _Sheesh_ , Cayleb." Her voice is light but her eyes are inquisitive, leaning closer and looking at his face. He wonders what she sees, if she sees a _mess_. He knows for a fact that along with the pink on his cheeks that he is sweating, that his hair is messy. He wonders if those wise violet eyes so full of knowledge and curiosity can see Caleb shrinking before her very gaze. "You really like tea, huh." She chews her bottom lip and traitorous eyes flit down to look, and he's damned foolish, _there is no use to this_. "I see your face, you know?" His eyes widen as her hand reaches out, cupping his cheek as if knowing the bracing cool of her fingers against his flushed face is exactly what he needs right now. "The woman helped a _leetel_." Her eyebrows wiggle.

"A leetel," he repeats, and another laugh manages out of his throat. "Oh, Jester." Fondness is laced in his tone. "She was so small." He has no idea what he's even talking about, and Jester's eyebrows furrow as Caleb looks at his empty cup. She slowly pulls her hand back to rest it on his shoulder, and he resists the urge to startle. The weight against him feels electrifying. "S-small like you, Jester."

" _Heyyyy_ ," she pouts, like he knew she would. Jester has become… so much more _known_ to him after all these months they've spent interacting with each other. Her tail flicks behind her indignantly and Caleb smiles at it, at the heart-shaped spade at the end with the little piercings that twinkle at the ends. "I'm _plenty_ tall, she might be small but I am _really_ a normal height, Cayleb." She sniffs, but her eyes glimmer. "Oh man, you're so drunk, you're saying so many crazy things."

"I'll stop," Caleb mumbles, tongue heavy in his mouth.

Jester grins, and she smacks his back with her tail, this affectionate little pressure he remembers Molly and Jester would enact on each other all the time. A way tieflings show camaraderie. His heart swells. "Don't," she breathes, and she's wiggling her eyebrows once more. He wonders if the way violet is spreading on her cheeks as she clears his throat is as obvious as his sick mine is envisioning it. Not him, surely not for _him_. "She reminded you of me, huh?"

Caleb feels the sentence rip out of his useless drunken throat before he can even think to stop it, though that doesn't stop the preliminary panic from setting in as his jaw begins to open, and then _is_ opening— "I can't keep kissing strangers and pretending that they're you."

The stillness of the quiet is frightening.

He's afraid to look at her, and he thinks he might die of his heart beating so fast. He opens his mouth to stumble out a horrified apology, his entire face red with humiliation, but as he finally forces his neck to turn his head, jaw clenched and panic working out in his eyes…

Jester is smiling sadly at him. "It would be a sad habit," she agrees. Her hand reaches to gently touch his, and Caleb is _still_ watching freckled blue against his own brown. He wants so badly to turn his hand to intertwine his fingers against hers, but he doesn't dare to. "I'm right here. You shouldn't…" She pauses, and then just huffs out a sigh. "You wanna go to sleep, Cayleb?"

Caleb nods, unable to make out another word. He would love more than anything to shy away from her, but their footsteps thud against the floorboards together as she wraps a strong, muscular arm around him, head tucking in under a shoulder. He's too tired to be horrified with himself for leaning into her touch, but he tries to comfort himself knowing in the morning he will want to strangle this wretched thing that wears his face. 

Thoughts start to sparse out, stringing along with the barest sense of sense or structure, and as he feels the threads of the bedsheets under him, he catches Jester watching him. T his intent and tender expression plays on her face. "You're a good friend." She looks away for a moment before meeting his gaze. "And you helped me help Mama. Don't avoid me in the morning, okay?" There is something trembling, vulnerable, working onto the jut of her lower lip. He wants to kiss it. He wants to hug her into the set of her shoulders relaxes and she leans into him, her small body tucking into his own. "Can you promise me, Cayleb?" She blinks, and his eyes, despite their tiredness, are still enraptured by the shining gleam against the eyelids from makeup.

"Promise," he slurs out, and the last thing he manages before the blankness that comes with sleep is the corner of her lips pulling up. Her hair falling forward as she leans down to look at him. Her, her, _her_. Always her.

He falls onto his bed like it's a cloud-like cocoon and dreams of blue.


End file.
